


a certain slant of light (where the meanings are)

by Victoryindeath2



Series: All That Glitters: Gold Rush!AU [76]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Caranthir is a cute 10 year old bby who hates turnips, Caranthir is both harsh and gentle and i love him very much, Caranthir loves all his brothers but Maedhros is his favorite, Caranthir misses his mom, Caranthir really wants this to be a hurt/comfort fic emphasis on the comfort, Feanor loves his sons but he could be a better dad, Gen, Gold Rush AU, I mean who doesn't love Maedhros best? (Curufin don't open your mouth), Maedhros is the best big brother, Saint Medals, Shattered Heroes, all the boys be hurting, and Caranthir never knows quite how to return the favor, fic in which Maedhros saves Caranthir several times over, gratuitous use of the name Maitimo, some swearing because Maedhros is drunk and upset...again, sometimes Caranthir wants to be like Maedhros and sometimes he doesn't, we gave Maedhros an eating disorder and it haunts me, what happened that New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victoryindeath2/pseuds/Victoryindeath2
Summary: Someone has hurt Maedhros."Do you mind?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TolkienGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/gifts), [Mythopoeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythopoeia/gifts).



> “Sometimes,” Maglor hisses, in the dark, “I hate you as much as I hate him.” - "the tabernacle (reconstructed)" Ch. 4, (Part 41 of Gold Rush AU)

_He doesn’t know his own brother._

_Caranthir has thought this before in the past few weeks, or maybe the past few months, but never has the notion ached so deeply in his bones._

_Athair’s men have built a fire with which to honor the dead, and so they have done, listing name after name, but having mourned and dined on bread and Mithrim’s finest meat, they wheel around the flames toasting anyone and everyone with a wine so strong and sweet that Caranthir spat it out after one small sip._

_He hunches over on a log in the shadows, grasping his elbows. The bitter night presses cold against his back, slips down between his collar and his neck, but he cannot bring himself to draw nearer to the fire. To do so would be to draw nearer to Maedhros, and Maedhros is staggering about with an entire bottle of wine in his hand._

_Maedhros is drunk, Maedhros is hurt, and Caranthir can’t tell which is more true._

_He has never seen his brother so loose, like a string doll stretched and twisted and worn._

_Who has used him so?_

_Caranthir leans over, picks up a broken stick, and pushes it into the chill dirt with such force that it snaps in half._

_Someone lays a heavy hand on Caranthir’s shoulder and he starts upright._

_“Do you mind?”_

_The voice is high-pitched, the hair flashes dark and red in the firelight, and the face—Caranthir would give anything to cloud the face hovering above him so that he can’t see the glazed, animal eyes and the bleeding lips._

_Someone has hurt Maedhros._

“Do you mind?”

Caranthir, glaring balefully at the plate of nasty, tasteless turnips sitting in front of him, cannot find it in him to rejoice that Maitimo has playfully shoved Maglor aside and claimed the portion of bench next to Caranthir.

Maitimo sets down his own meal, a bowl of steaming broth that Caranthir would trade his turnips for in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, Mother is busy upstairs with the twins, who lie abed with a mild fever, as they have done for two days and two miserable dinners, and Athair alone reigns over the evening meal.

Athair leads them in Irish grace, and Caranthir stumbles over the words and is grateful for Maglor’s clear voice drowning out his own mistakes.

Across from Caranthir, Celegorm digs right into his chicken, smothered in mushrooms. Caranthir distinctly remembers Mother saying she would roast rosemary chicken to mark the beginning of summer, but Mother has not had time nor strength to cook, and Athair told the hired help he wanted mushrooms instead of rosemary.

Athair loves mushrooms, and so does Caranthir, and any other day (week) Caranthir would smile secretly to himself, because not even Curufin likes them so well. But it is this week and this day, and the mushrooms that smell deliciously earthy are forbidden to him, a punishment almost as great that sitting before him.

Caranthir stares at his turnips and almost gags. He manages to shove two very small bites down his throat. Athair, sitting just to his right in a chair with intricate scrollwork, scarcely looks at him.

He’s eying Maitimo’s bowl of opaque broth instead, and frowning.

“Maedhros,” Athair says abruptly, “don’t you like mushrooms?”

Maitimo smiles, and his too-thin face—well, it sort of glows.

“I would prefer to say my relationship with them has its ups and downs.”

From somewhere on the other side of Maitimo’s tall frame, Maglor chokes, and Caranthir drops his spoon in his turnips.

For all he loves his brother, for all he has missed him, Caranthir has forgotten so much about him. The fact that he hates mushrooms like he has never hated anything in his life. The fact that Caranthir has always envied him for getting to eat whatever he wants, that Mother always has his favorite foods specially prepared and ready to heat. The fact that Maedhros gets so giddy to be back home that he gets borderline flippant about things he usually flushes to acknowledge.

The fact that, for a whole day or two, Maitimo will _joke_ with Athair, and Athair will _smile_.

Athair is not smiling now. His eyes are fixed on Maitimo, who calmly sips broth from a wide silver spoon, and Athair grunts as though he would speak except his lips have been pasted together and stuck that way.

Caranthir’s stomach rumbles, and he hunches over instinctively. If he can squish his insides together, maybe he can trick himself into believing he isn’t hungry, not even for the mushrooms Celegorm is disappearing at an incredible rate.

(Celegorm doesn’t love mushrooms, he just loves food.)

Maitimo doesn’t say another word, just continues to sip at his broth, such tiny sips it will take him an hour to finish.

(Caranthir wasted two hours last night, eating his turnips. And that was a smaller helping than Athair gave him tonight.)  

It takes five minutes and one small scoop of mush that almost ends up back on Caranthir’s plate before it strikes Caranthir that the table is awfully quiet.

Everyone is eating except for Caranthir and Athair.

Athair grips his silverware in both hands, and his brow furrows still in Maitimo’s direction, but there is something odd about him.

Caranthir struggles to put his finger on just what. No, there it is.

Athair is biting his lip.

A distinct shock tremors down Caranthir’s neck and shoulders. Athair _never_ —

Athair pushes his chair back, grating it against the floor, probably scratching the wood, and Mother will scold him if she can single it out from all the other scratches already present, and Athair _leaves his dinner behind_ and leaves his _sons_ behind. He just turns and stalks out of the room, and every remaining pair of eyes stares at his empty seat.

Every pair of eyes but one. Caranthir pulls his gaze away from Athair’s chair and the chicken and mushrooms half-finished on a leafy silver plate, and finds Maitimo bent over the table, face flushed, stirring his broth very slowly with one hand. His left hand supports his forehead.

“Maedhros,” Curufin hisses, and he’s probably going to blame Maitimo for Athair’s anger, such as it must be, except Maglor kicks his shin violently under the table and Curufin wails and kicks back harder.

Maglor shoves his plate aside, picks up scrawny Curufin by the waist, and carries him out of the room.

Maitimo doesn’t flinch, just continues as he was, and Celegorm shrugs at Caranthir, wolfs down the rest of his dinner, and pads away after Maglor, barefoot.

Caranthir can’t figure out what just happened.

A whole minute goes by, and Caranthir swirls his turnips with his spoon, and wishes he dared throw them out the window, or dump them in a bucket in the washroom, to be secretly transported to the woods in the middle of the night, no matter what creatures might lurk among the trees.

Then a hand is on his shoulder, and Maitimo smiles at him.

“Athair will be back soon,” Maitimo says.

Caranthir nods. Either his chin or his lips tremble. His eyes are _not_ tearing up, they aren’t, but Maitimo still wipes at his cheeks with a gentle thumb, and suddenly Caranthir realizes that if anyone can understand, Maitimo will.

“Athair can’t cook,” he says abruptly. “The turnips were just a side, but Amrod came in from gathering eggs with yolk all over his face because he bet that Amras couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

“And?” Maedhros prompts him to continue. His lips are as solemn and sincere as his soft grey eyes.

“And Mother cleaned Amrod up but then realized Ambarussa were both burning up with fever and Athair came in from the forge just then so Mother told him to watch the turnips and he took them off the stove too early and they were still too raw and bitter, and he didn’t mash them hardly at all, and a string got stuck in my throat and I spat everything back on my plate.”

Something clenches in Caranthir’s stomach and he almost starts sobbing, which would be so stupid because he is too big for that, and Maitimo would be ashamed of him.

(Maitimo never tells his brothers he is ashamed of them. But if he even _thought_ Caranthir was not brave—no Caranthir can’t bear how much he would despise himself.)

“Caranthir,” Maitimo says, voice soft as the silk on one of Mother’s cream pies, “you need to breathe.”  He rests his slender right hand on Caranthir’s chest, and Caranthir exhales.

“Watch this,” Maitiomo says, winking. He takes Caranthir’s spoon, scoops up a grotesquely massive lump of turnips, and shoves it in his mouth.

Caranthir gasps. Maitimo hasn’t eaten turnips since...he has never eaten turnips. Not in Caranthir’s memory.

Maitimo swallows, grins widely, then takes another bite, almost as big as the first.

“You can’t,” Caranthir says faintly. “Athair will see.”

At the same moment, the stairs out in the hallway next to the dining room creak as they always do, and heavy footsteps that can only belong to Feanor son of Finwe near the dining room.

Maedhros son of Feanor resolutely consumes a third spoonful of the rotten turnips.

“He’ll be furious with you.” Caranthir clutches the table cloth and barely restrains himself from crawling under the table. He has to sit next to his brother, think of some way to defend him, to keep Athair from punishing him for helping Caranthir.

Caranthir grabs the spoon from Maitimo’s hand, wrestles it away with surprising ease—and freezes when Maitimo snatches up Caranthir’s whole plate and dumps the turnips into his own bowl, where the foul mush sinks into the dark broth and disappears from sight.

Never in his life has Caranthir been stunned thoughtless. Speechless, yes, thoughtless, no.

Maitimo slips Caranthir’s plate in front of him and guides Caranthir’s hand to his mouth so that Caranthir must slip the spoon inside. Caranthir does so without protest. Then Maitimo hastily swirls his turnipy broth around, mixing it into a creamy mess, and begins to consume it as though it were as tasty as one of Mother’s puddings.

Athair stands in the doorway, clasping his hands behind his back. He eyes his sons as though he were one of Celegorm’s favorite hawks.

Caranthir, who holes himself away in an oversized closet, making it his bedroom, has never felt so much like a mouse as now.

His legs shake, and his heart is pounding, but he stays. He will not leave Maitimo.

Athair steps forward, wraps forge-scarred fingers about the top of his chair, sighs.

Caranthir opens his mouth to speak (to speak what he does not know), but Athair motions to Maglor and Curufin’s plates, half full of still-warm chicken and mushrooms.

“Caranthir,” Athair says, not looking at him, “your brothers do not appreciate the food provided for them. You may take the plates into the kitchen, and I will not question what you do with their contents.”

Caranthir looks at Athair and then looks at Maitimo, but Maitimo is steadily eating his turnip soup.

Something, a boot, perhaps, nudges Caranthir’s own shoe, and Caranthir says, “Yes, Athair,” and carries Maglor’s and Curufin’s plates into the kitchen. He sets them on the little wooden table where he has spent hours forming pie crusts under Mother’s tutelage, and peeks back into the dining room.

Athair has sat down again and is eating his dinner. From time to time he sets his fork down and grimaces, tightening the skin on his cheekbones, and he twice he glances at Maitimo with a strange look that is neither confusion nor anger but might be anything in between, or something else entirely. He does not speak, though, and Caranthir’s stomach rumbles again, empty as it is, and Caranthir turns away and eats what Maglor and Curufin left behind.

 

(A conversation Caranthir never hears: Maitimo quietly asking Athair to cease punishing Caranthir, and Athair nodding, lips pursed.)

(A sound Caranthir never forgets: Maitimo retching in the stable, where he thinks no one will witness him, but Caranthir had crawled up into the hayloft to ask God why He can’t make Maitimo like food more, because food is good as long as Athair isn’t in charge of it, and Maitimo is the best brother in the world.)

 

_“Do you mind?”_

_Maedhros leans on Caranthir’s shoulder, pressing him down toward the earth without meaning to, and he holds his wine bottle in front of Caranthir’s eyes and tilts it back and forth._

_“Cork’s stuck,” he says, slurring his words just a little (just a lot, Caranthir can barely understand him). “Give a fellow a hand?”_

_Caranthir shivers, but it has nothing to do with the cold. He can’t feel the cold anymore._

_Maedhros does not recognize him._

_“You’re drunk,” Caranthir says, choking. He is not blind or clueless, he knows Maedhros drinks whiskey daily, but this... “Let me take that.” He pulls the bottle from his brother’s grasp. If Athair sees—_

_Maedhros sways. “I suppose I am.” He squints, touches Caranthir’s short dark hair with an unsteady hand, brushes his smallish ears. His eyes widen and he sits down heavily on the ground, right at Caranthir’s feet._

_His coat is open, is falling down his shoulders. The night is too cold for that, and too cruel. Maedhros’s shirt collar is rumpled, and so Caranthir sees a bit of The Scar._

_(Curufin gently lowered Caranthir’s book with two fingers, but Caranthir only said, “I don’t know anything, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”)_

_“Oh_ fuck _,” Maedhros says, and Caranthir can understand that perfectly well, because Maedhros always speaks so clearly when he swears._  
  
_(“What the devil?” This was Caranthir’s favorite curse in happier times, back when Maedhros was Maitimo to everyone but Curufin and Athair, back when Caranthir wished he could be like his oldest brother in every way. Now...he doesn’t know how much of Maedhros is left. He doesn’t ask, yet, how much of Caranthir is left.)_

_Caranthir wants to kneel down and grasp Maedhros and hug him until they both wake up from this horrid nightmare, and they’ll be back, oh anywhere before that awful Bridge._

_No._

_Caranthir calculates back further, before the Bridge, to the Room. The Room Athair locked Mother in, and Caranthir is—and was—bigger than Curufin, he should have been able to subdue him, should have freed Mother and together...Caranthir has no idea what they could have done._

_Athair is unstoppable, and even after everything, Caranthir followed him across the Bridge and carried Maedhros’s body from the burning flame._

_(After everything, Caranthir had no strength left, only hurt. He saw Curufin shaking, saw him struggling to breathe, and he looked away. His shoulder still hurt from where Curufin had shoved him into a wall. He still remembered Curufin’s pale, wild face and the way the blood had rushed in a hot wave to his own head.)_

_(Sometimes, Caranthir wishes he had forgiven Curufin immediately. Sometimes, he worries he hasn’t done so at all.)_

_“Fuck,” Maedhros says again, more softly, more desperately, and Caranthir flinches. “You’re not supposed to be here, Caranthir, why are you here?” Maedhros’ words stream out of him, water through a sieve. “Mamai will not forgive me—I didn’t bring you, did I?”_

_Maedhros is breathing hard. Caranthir crushes his hands against the wine bottle hard, but it does not shatter.  Does not leave shards sticking in his hands, bleeding out his fears and pains._

_He cannot handle this. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know what to say._

_Maedhros curls forward, out of pain or lack of coordination, Caranthir cannot tell, but Caranthir braces his hand against his brother’s chest and holds him up._

_“I’ll get you to bed,” he says._

_You just need sleep, he wants to add, but that must be a lie, because Maedhros never needs sleep, takes less sleep than even food, so something else must be seriously wrong._

_It must be, for Maedhros is stronger than anyone Caranthir knows, maybe even stronger than Athair._

_Something has hurt his brother to the core._

_“Maglor,” Caranthir calls into the crowd of still celebrating men and women. They had faded out of existence for a moment, but now that he needs them, they have returned to the world loud and too rowdy to pay him any mind._

_“No!” Maedhros sits up straight, clutches at Caranthir’s wrist. “No,” he repeats. His face twists like it does when he thinks no one is looking, but Caranthir sees, sometimes, and now he knows._

_Someone has hurt his brother. Why the hell couldn’t it have been Curufin? That, at least, would have been normal._

_Maedhros lets go of Caranthir and takes the wine back. Caranthir allows it._

_He needs help._

_Golden hair dances through the crowd around the fire, and in sharp relief Caranthir almost shrieks Celegorm’s name._

_His brother comes._


	2. Chapter 2

_Caranthir does not follow Celegorm as he half-carries Maedhros back to their quarters, does not follow even with his eyes. He sits on his log, ticking his fingernails against his teeth, and he stares at the wine bottle left derelict on the ground._

_Mother always had harsh words for men and women who allowed themselves to be ruled by drink, and yet—_

_Caranthir can think of nothing but Maedhros’s horror at the idea of Mother seeing him intoxicated and loose in his movement and mind, and he thinks: if Mother were here, she would only embrace him. She would._

_It is Maedhros, after all. Maitimo._

_“Caranthir, have you seen Maedhros?” In a daze, Caranthir lifts his eyes. Mother is not here, will never hug Maedhros again, but Athair stands above him, sober and alight with purpose. He wears a black vest under his coat, and the ring on his finger flashes in the firelight as it hangs by the gun at his hip. Vaguely, Caranthir recalls seeing his father earlier in the night, standing on the peripheral of the celebrations, conversing intently with Rumil._

_How much has Athair seen?_

_Caranthir long ago learned the sinfulness of lying to a parent, not to mention the consequence, but he has since seen and participated in such great offenses that his words do little more than stick for a moment in his throat._

_“Maitimo felt ill. He has gone to bed.” It is not a lie, but it is not the exact truth._

_Caranthir feels his medal cold against his chest, and he prays St. Dominic will ask God to forgive him this too. Maitimo has only ever been the best of brothers to Caranthir, and Caranthir must try to return the favor. He has so often failed before._

 

“Water too cold for you?” Curufin jeers at Maitimo as all but the eldest of Athair’s sons leaps into the silt-thick stream.

Maitimo always needed his bath to be heated to an unreasonable degree, always was the first to dig out his thick woolen winter shirts.

Maitimo was also the one who came in from chopping frozen wood, face white and blue, eyelashes crusted in ice, hands bleeding through his mittens. Mother—Mother made him soak his hands in a bowl of warm water by the fire before taking the mittens off, so that he would not tear his skin further.

Maitimo held five-year-old Curufin for two days straight when he burned with scarlet fever, weeping and singing and whispering. Stroking his Athair-dark hair.

Curufin must not remember this...he must not.

Maitimo turns away from the river, shrugging and saying someone needs to stand as lookout while the others cleanse themselves of a week’s worth of filth. There is a ferry upstream, and the sons of Feanor should not smell like animals when paying for passage.

(They _will_ pay this time.)

Unfortunately, no one is fooled by Maitimo’s excuse, except maybe the twins. Curufin grins, ducks into the mountain-cold water like he has lived there all his life, and Maedhros builds a fire to warm his brothers when they exit the river.

Caranthir finds a stone as yet unsmoothed by the current, and he digs its edges into his hands and wishes, not for the first or last time, that he had a way with words. That he had some measure of influence over his brothers.

Curufin rarely shuts up when Caranthir tells him to.

Caranthir wakes from his sleep that same chilled October night, bestirred to consciousness by muffled groans and a hand grasping his ankle, digging fingernails into the skin just under the cuff of his pants.

“Get off,” Caranthir mumbles, kneeing in the stomach whichever brother it is who torments him so.

There is a hiss of breath, and the hand relaxes its grip.

Caranthir sits up and hits his head on the wagon belly above him.

He is not in his cozy bed in Formenos, nor is he on some impromptu, ill-advised camping trip (he was not asked, that time so long ago). Rather, he is in land too flat and dry, where rocks little and large dig into his back when he tries to rest, where scraggly trees claw their way out of the dust and twist and bend, the scattered, witchy guardians of yet another river they must struggle to cross.

(Rather, he is west of his whole life, and has been lying under the family wagon wrapped in a quilt belonging to someone who no longer kisses his black hair or encourages his short patience to hold steady in tasks like threading needles and shaping delicate pie crusts.)

The body next to him shifts, and Caranthir blinks, eyes adjusting to the darkness of night and the faint light of a fire that burns too many feet away to give him warmth.

Maglor sits with his back to the wagon, staring into the flames, and Caranthir wonders whose watch it is, if midnight has come already, if Maglor cannot sleep at all.

Maglor can usually sleep like the dead.

Someone whimpers, like Huan does when Caranthir accidentally steps on his tail, and Caranthir rolls his brother over to see that he is—

Curufin.

A slow-moving shock strikes Caranthir upon the jaw, closing his mouth, forcing him to blink many times before he understands what he sees.

Curufin has his arms wrapped around his chest, and his quilt is tangled about his legs, and his teeth bite down on some sort of rag, or perhaps a rolled-up shirt.

Caranthir swallows hard.

A stick cracks, and Caranthir looks toward the fire to see that Maedhros—Maitimo—has joined Maglor by the fire, though he does not sit beside him.

(Maitimo is light of foot, agile as a deer and with more grace than anyone Caranthir has ever seen, so he could not have made the noise. The fire must be consuming its wood in merry greed.)

Maglor pats the ground invitingly, and Maitimo droops, a willow tree drawn toward the earth.

“Sit with me,” Maglor says softly, but Maitimo shakes his head. He slips a bar of white soap out of his pocket and worries it between his fingers.

The river some hundred feet away grumbles steadily on, and if Caranthir shields his eyes from the campfire, he can look underneath the wagons on the other side and see little pinpricks of lantern light at the ferry station a mile distant.

The Green River cannot be crossed unless by ferry, so Galway says, and he seems knowledgeable about this sort of thing, but Athair espied soldiers of some sort manning the dock. He says the risk is too great, and that the wagons must ford the river without aid.

Caranthir calculates how many wagons they can afford to lose on their long journey. They are like to lose all of them in the morning.

“Maitimo,” Maglor says, and though his voice is still low it takes on an edge.

Caranthir has heard this edge before.

(Caranthir, _have_ you been studying your Latin? _Have_ you apologized for stomping on Celegorm’s foot? Good Lord, Mother goes visiting for _two days_ and all of you brats turn into little _demons_...)

Maitimo must recognize the edge too, because he says “Don’t,” and straightens. No longer a willow tree, then.

Caranthir misses willow trees and apple trees and every other tree from—long ago.

“Have you been cleaning them?” Maglor’s jaw is silhouetted against the flames as he stares up at Maitimo. “Remember, you promised me—”

Maitimo swears, and Maglor falls silent.

Something with tiny feet runs over Caranthir’s hand where it rests on the ground, and though he restrains himself from crying out, he smacks it away, and a little brown lizard flies through the air and smacks against the wagon wheel. It doesn’t move from where it falls, but Caranthir has no concern to spare.

Curufin is writhing on the ground again, and his inseparable eldest brothers are fighting, and Caranthir misses walls and locks and keys and pillows that muffle the sound of crying.

 

(“Mamaí,” he cried, when the twins crawled into his lap, screaming for Maitimo. But Maitimo was gone, and Mother had cursed them all, and Formenos was burning. All a dream, a nightmare, and Caranthir remembers what he saw before he woke, held tight in Curufin’s grasp. He had so many nightmares as a child. Perhaps it is true, that he is a child still.)

 

Maitimo leaves Maglor by the campfire and vanishes like a wraith into the darkness past the wagons, towards the river.

Maglor looks after him, then kicks at the fire with one boot, and sparks fly into the air.

Curufin has not stopped squirming, his mouth screwed up around his rag, and he starts to choke. Caranthir hastily snatches the rag out. Curufin grinds his teeth in response, and Caranthir finds himself brushing a rough hand on Curufin’s cheek so that he unclenches his jaw.

If Curufin were awake, he would not let his brother touch him so.  

Caranthir digs his knuckles into his forehead, and then he rolls out from under the wagon and creeps after Maitimo.

It is long since Caranthir sought comfort for his nightmares. He resolved to fight them on his own, and he struggles through them as best he may, but that does not mean he has to let his brothers suffer likewise.

He thinks—he does not know, he does not think he wants to know but— Maitimo may have worse dreams than he.

 

Caranthir nods to Galway, who is circling the wagons on his watch, and then he goes slowly, from tree to ragged tree, because he does not want to risk Maitimo hearing or seeing him.

The moon above is only a crescent and provides little light, but Caranthir manages to stumble his way back to the wide river. Celegorm he is not, and he trips over tree roots and scrapes his hands on dirt and prickled shrubs, but he makes it in the end. He finds his brother sitting on the bank a quarter mile downstream from camp, a dark shape hunched over in silence.

The rush of the river from the morning seems to have slowed to a trickle, and Caranthir’s breath does likewise. His brother should sense his presence, if only for Caranthir’s clumsy approach, but Maitimo is so still in the night he almost _becomes_ the night. Almost fades from Caranthir’s sight, blending with the cold shadows that waver in the breeze sweeping down from the Wind River Mountains, whispering of the winter that will soon descend.

Maitimo does nothing, makes no sign he knows he is not alone. He only lowers his head between his knees. He might be shaking or crying or sleeping, but it is impossible to tell.

An owl hoots, and Caranthir presses his cheek on the rough trunk of the tree he hides behind,  and he turns his head back and forth so that he half-scrapes his own skin off.

He is most likely a fool—maybe his brother just needs space, time alone. Caranthir knows the feeling. And yet, that has never been Maitimo’s way.

He waits and watches for many minutes, and just when he is about to turn back to camp, or maybe to step out from behind his gnarled tree, to ask some stammered question, Maitimo leaps to his feet and sheds his coat and his shirt, pulling the latter off his head so violently that it catches at his jaw and wrenches it to the right.

Maitimo gasps, raises his hand to a bandage on his neck, a bandage Caranthir only saw a few days ago. 

That was an accident, the seeing. Maitimo has not gone without a shirt or coat for days, for a week. Ever since South Pass. Something had happened there that was not an accident, but Caranthir doesn’t know, and Curufin doesn’t know, though Maglor must, and Celegorm...

Caranthir does not have the time to think this through, because Maitimo bends swiftly and dashes a hand in the river, and when he pulls it out, Caranthir sees he still holds the bar of soap in his hand.

Maitimo begins to scrub at his chest desperately, as though he could strip himself of his pale skin as well as his clothes, and Caranthir’s blood stings as it rushes into his cheeks.

“Maitimo!”

His brother whirls and crouches like a hunted thing, and Caranthir stands stupidly a few feet from him. He has stepped out from the protection of the tree, and he holds a hand half-raised toward Maitimo, as if he would stop his brother from treating himself so ill.

A breath and then—

Caranthir can’t tell if his brother’s look of fear floats away in the chill breeze that dips suddenly down from the night above, up from the river below, or if it was only ever a shadow.

“Maedhros,” Maitimo says. His lean body, bisected at an angle by shadow and tremulous moonlight, looks far too thin, and Caranthir’s eyes must be playing tricks because for one instant cruel red lines, spaced like Maglor’s harp strings, seem to slash and arc about his brother’s chest.

“What?” Caranthir blinks, and the lines vanish. They cannot be real.

“Never mind.” Maitimo straightens, drops his bar of soap on the ground. He snatches up his shirt, and struggles to put it on, but it is tangled and a button seems to have caught on a loose string, so Caranthir steps forward, both arms outstretched now, offering wordless help.

Maitimo practically throws the shirt in Caranthir’s face.

Caranthir exclaims more in surprise than in pain when a shirt sleeve smacks him across the eyes. Maitimo—Maedhros?—does not wait for Caranthir to untangle button and string, instead slinging his duster on and drawing it close about his body.

“It’s too cold to bathe,” Maitimo says. His voice is steady but for a lilt of humor.

This is not the first time in recent months that Caranthir doubts that lightness.

(where does change begin, and where the hell does it end?)

“It was too cold in daylight,” Caranthir says shortly, because he still regrets leaping in after Celegorm. He shivers in memory of the icy water.

On the other hand, he definitely smells better.

Maitimo’s shirt stinks.

Everybody stinks all the time, and Caranthir is not fussy, he can take this in stride as part of the travelling, but it’s just _one more thing_ on top of so many other things.

“You should be sleeping.” Maitimo speaks softly, and Caranthir wants to punch his shoulder, because he came here to comfort his brother, not the other way around.

He came here to ask why Maitimo drinks every damn day, why he doesn’t wear his medal anymore, why he never takes that bandage off his neck, why Celegorm shoved Curufin into a tree when Curufin wouldn’t stop _asking_ —

“Curufin woke me,” Caranthir says. He pulls on the string abruptly, and the button pops off and plinks against a rock somewhere by his feet, which are rooted to the ground. “He was having a nightmare. Grabbed my ankle and whimpered.”

He pauses, because this will be too cruel, but such is the world they now live in. Change, and all that.

“I thought he was you.”

In what little moonlight there is, Maitimo looks rather strangled.

Caranthir immediately wishes he could throw himself into a volcano. “Hell,” he says violently, “I don’t mean it like it sounds.”

(he doesn’t?)

Now is the time for Maitimo to jump in, to wrap his arm around Caranthir’s awkward sixteen-year-old shoulders. Now is the time for him ruffle Caranthir’s hair and laugh off the injury, because he has always been one of the few who do not take offense at his brother’s stilted thought process and blunt words. He has always given Caranthir the chance to explain himself.

The owl hoots again, and there is a whoosh of wings from somewhere in the dark, and a small mouse squeaks its last cry. Caranthir fumbles over words, and Maitimo does not move.

He scarcely breaths.

Caranthir works his jaw and digs deep, deep into his brain, searching for something that will not push his brother off whatever cliff he stands upon.

Nothing is good enough.

(“Words have value,” Mother once told him, but Caranthir could never accurately measure the worth of his own.)

“Mother could always soothe my nightmares,” he says at last, “but I felt safest when I ran to you. Still do.”

A faint voice, but real and familiar: “Is that why you’ve followed me?”

Caranthir flushes, cheeks hot with the lie that springs from his tongue. “Yes.”

(pray for us sinners)

Maitimo does move then, and Caranthir cannot bring himself to tear at his brother with his list of questions, not with Maitimo’s strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, not with tall Maitimo bending down, copper hair resting against Caranthir’s dark.

No safer place in the world, yet Caranthir must let go at last.

Maitimo clings to him for a moment longer, and Caranthir almost kicks himself for being the first to step back.

You can’t _do_ that with Maitimo.

Not when he needs comfort as badly as Caranthir is afraid he does.

Caranthir hides his guilt by crouching beside the stream and scrubbing the sweat and grime from his brother’s shirt. Maitimo stands above him, watching. They do not speak.

Words aren’t everything, and thank goodness for that.

They will go back to the camp together, and Maitimo no doubt will check on Curufin, to make sure he sleeps soundly now. He has never stopped loving Curufin, though it might make many things easier if he did.

As Caranthir runs his hands over dirt and twig, trying to find Maitimo’s lost button, all the questions he thought were important fade behind the looming darkness of a more painful thought.

Who does Maitimo run to when _he_ is afraid?

 

When they return to camp, Maitimo dangling his damp shirt over his shoulder, they find that Curufin is sleeping soundly, squished in between Celegorm and Huan. Huan’s head rests on Curufin’s neck, his whiskers brush Curufin’s ear, and Celegorm has wrapped his feet around Curufin’s ankles, presumably to keep him from kicking in his sleep.

There is no room for Caranthir, what with Huan lying on Mother’s quilt.

It has always been this way—he carefully divides himself up into many pieces so that everyone he loves can have a part of him, and then—the pieces still aren’t small enough to fit in.

Aren’t the right shape.

Caranthir doesn’t even bother looking in the wagon. He can hear Ambarussa snoring merrily away, and he knows he would never get to sleep. Athair is gone, presumably on watch, and Maitimo is—

Maitimo is guiding him to the fire, is pushing him down beside Maglor, is making him rest his head on Maitimo’s shoulder.

Maglor grunts, but Maitimo only whispers, “Nightmare,” and he subsides.

Caranthir falls asleep, and dreams he is home in Formenos, with flour in his dark hair and on his cheeks, and Mother wipes his face clean and pecks him on his nose, her favorite nose in the world, she says, though Caranthir hates how big it is.

“I love you so much,” Mother says. “Don’t ever forget that.”

“Can I just be me?” Caranthir says. “Will that be enough?”

Mother’s face grows long and slender and beautiful, and her hair shortens in glorious waves.

“You are more than enough,” Maitimo whispers.

The kiss pressed against Caranthir’s brow is too warm to be a dream.

He grabs for Maitimo’s hand, clutching at it though he does not have the strength to keep his eyes open.

“So are you,” he says.

 

When morning comes, Caranthir groans when Maitimo nudges him awake, because his neck feels crooked and he has never been an early riser and months of being forced to rise with the dawn or before the dawn have done nothing to make him more cheerful to be around.

Maitimo just smiles, and Athair orders Caranthir to help wash the dishes after breakfast.  Caranthir grumbles the whole time which at least seems to amuse Amras, who is supposed to be helping Celegorm hitch up the horses and why _why_ do the twins always get away with everything and Caranthir is forced to suffer.

At last the wagons are put together, are moving, rumbling down toward the river, to look for the narrowest, shallowest part Athair can find.

They are but a half mile downstream when Caranthir feels something sting the back of his neck, and he slaps his hand on his skin, brushing away some nasty, crunchy sort of bug with ugly brown wings.

“What is the matter?” Maglor urges his horse near Caranthir’s, but Caranthir cannot answer him.

It’s missing, his medal is missing, chain and all.

It must have broken off, whether at the camp or by the river or in a wagon or—

Caranthir’s heart is in his throat, because the medal is from Mother and Athair both, it is a sign of his family, it is a sign of his own particular saint, Dominic, who loved Mary and the Rosary so well, it is a sign of Caranthir’s baptism and faith and innocence, a sign of everything Caranthir hopes he has not left behind forever.

To lose it—he cannot lose it.

With a cry, Caranthir kicks his horse on one side of its belly, and the horse whirls about and bolts, back toward camp, toward the river. Athair’s voice is somewhere behind him in the outcry of many, but if he cannot hear Athair’s words then he doesn’t know for certain that Athair commands him to stay.

Caranthir rides into last night’s campsite, where the smoke of the smothered fire burns acridly, still wisping into the light of the youthful sun, and he nearly breaks his ankle leaping off his horse.

Instead, it only twists a little, but he pays the twinging no mind as he stumbles back and forth, scanning the ground frantically.

It is here, it has to be here.

Hoofbeats thunder, and Caranthir turns, eyes half-blind with tears, to find Celegorm and Maitimo dismounting.

“What the hell are you doing?” Celegorm asks, flinging his arms up to the sky. “Athair is going to kill you for riding off like that.”

Maitimo is softer. “What is the matter, cano?”

Caranthir is too distraught to take notice of the endearment, though Maitimo never calls him that.

He paces the ground, continuing his search. “I can’t find my medal,” he says, voice cracked with desperation. Something glints in the scrubby grass, and he pinches it between his fingers only to find it is a bent coin. He flings it wildly towards the river.

“Caranthir,” Maitimo says worriedly. He, too, begins to walk this way and that, and his spurs rattle against the hard ground.

Caranthir has no spurs, would once have given much to possess ones like his brother’s, but right now he would sacrifice all the spurs in the world if only he could find St. Dominic.

Celegorm heaves a sigh, runs a hand through his golden hair.  “Hell, Caranthir, it could be anywhere.” He kicks a loose rock. “You can’t spend all day looking for a little thing like that.”

Caranthir stops mid-stride and whirls on Celegorm. He lunges at him, shoves him backward, and Juniper, Celegorm’s horse, shies away with a whinny.

“What does that mean?” Caranthir asks, and his tears have vanished in his sudden rage.

He is sixteen, much shorter than Celegorm and perhaps of less wisdom—no, that cannot be true—but all the boyish fury that he struggles to keep tamped down rages up at Celegorm’s apparent lack of understanding.

“I need my medal,” he says, pushing Celegorm again, shoving his palms into Celegorm’s chest. “Do you even remember what yours looks like? Or have you kept it hidden under your shirt so long you forget the saint and the prayer on the reverse?”

Celegorm, taken aback by the first assault, is not so startled by the second, and at the third he grabs Caranthir’s wrists and spins him away from himself, so that Caranthir staggers almost into the ashes of the smoking campfire.

“Celegorm,” Maitimo snaps, and his voice is so sharp that even Caranthir freezes. Celegorm ducks his head, looking for all the world like a boy of eight instead of eighteen.

“Celegorm, please return to Athair and inform him that Caranthir and I left something important behind, and that we will rejoin the wagon party in an hour’s time at the most.”

Celegorm’s eyes are wide, and he starts to say that Athair will be angry, but Maitimo forestalls him.

“He will hold no quarrel but with me. I will see to that.”

As the dust of Celegorm’s horse rises in his wake, Maitimo turns back to Caranthir, who blushes with shame.

He has always had such a temper. When he was very little, Mother used to pull him aside, away from Celegorm and little Curufin, and she would sit with him till he calmed down, stroking his hot forehead and wiping his sweat away with her soft apron. She taught him to think before he spoke in anger, and for the most part, he has followed her advice.

Mother is gone.

So is Caranthir’s medal.

How can anyone expect Caranthir to be meek and gentle now?

(Gentle. Mother used to call him that, and he has never understood it, because one autumn when he was eight he listened at the staircase when Grandfather Finwe was visiting, and Athair sat with him and held his head in his hands and said that Caranthir was the harshest of his sons, the quickest to anger, a fact especially noticeable ever since Maitimo and Maglor had gone away to the city.

And that was true indeed, and Caranthir had slunk away before Grandfather Finwe could do more than clasp Athair’s hands in his own. Caranthir had crawled into Maitimo’s large empty bed and cried into Maitimo’s pillow until Mother found him and covered him in hugs and kisses and gave him hot chocolate to drink.)

“Caranthir.”

A long, arm wraps around Caranthir’s shoulders, bracing him, and Caranthir realizes he is kneeling on the ground. He looks up, and Maitimo’s kind grey eyes meet his own.

“Fear not,” Maitimo says lightly. “No good deed goes unrewarded.”

And he takes Caranthir’s fist in his own hands and gently uncurls the fingers.

Caranthir stares uncomprehendingly, and sucks in his breath when Maitimo drops cool metal into the palm of Caranthir’s hand.

“It was by the river,” Maitimo whispers. “Where you were so worried about me that you tricked me into giving you a hug.”

Caranthir’s face, red from his fleeting anger, now turns a deeper shade of scarlet. Maitimo is too wise and discerning.

He is also far, far too good to Caranthir, who does little but muck things up.

“Thank you,” Caranthir whispers, choking out the words through his constricted throat. “I won’t lose it again, I promise.”

Maitimo’s smile looks odd, and it is only on the ride back to the wagon train that Caranthir strikes his leg and grits his teeth. He is always putting his foot in his mouth.

Maitimo must have lost his medal some time ago. He hasn’t worn it in ages, and Caranthir knows how proud Maitimo is to be named for St. Michael the Archangel, and he knows it must pain his brother deeply to no longer have it in his possession.

Someday, Caranthir will help his brother more than he will hurt him.

 

_Athair stares down at him, and Caranthir’s face flushes deep red, but then Athair’s lips twist in amusement and he lays a large hand on Caranthir’s hunched shoulder._

_“You need not fear me,” Athair says, and the way he tightens his grasp for a passing second, squeezing at Caranthir’s bones, well it would almost be comforting._

_Almost, if Caranthir were the one in need of comforting._

_He is not._

_“Athair,” Caranthir begins, but his father shakes his head._

_“If Maedhros has been enjoying himself overmuch, it is of small matter to me. Let him smile and laugh while he can, for we have work that we must soon set our mind and muscles to.”_

_Caranthir almost buries his fist in Athair’s chest, because for once, finally, Maitimo is breaking apart without any reckoning for who watches, and that alone must mean he is near destroyed. Between whatever awful thing Maglor has done and whatever blindness momentarily possesses Athair, Caranthir is ready to explode._

_Every moment of childish anger that Maitimo ever quelled rises up like bile in Caranthir’s throat, and it is hot and thick when he tries to swallow it._

_Athair loves Maitimo. That is not what this is about._

_The problem is, no one, least of all Caranthir, understands Maitimo as he needs to be understood._


	3. Chapter 3

_No one (no one in Mithrim) understands Maitimo._

_A long-ago-night stirs in Caranthir’s mind—a quiet night and a sleeping mother. Athair sitting cold in the fireglow. Maitimo kneeling upon the ground, hands grasping Athair’s, and—“I swear on my life.”_

_Is all this, whatever_ this _is, worth a life? Worth seven lives?_

_Caranthir has asked himself this question again and again, even as he follows the dark pillar of Athair’s wishes through parted seas and deserts._

_(Caranthir had followed last of all, after eager Curufin and brash Celegorm, after the breathless twins. Each of these swore for Athair, but Maglor swore because Maitimo led. Caranthir pledged his word because—)_

_Someone shrieks, and Caranthir whips his head up, glimpses the rough-skinned, rough-boned men and women of Mithrim laughing at Homer where he has fallen on the ground, shirt covered in sweet red wine._

_Homer, the idiot, laughs along._

_Galway, calm, level Galway, shakes his head as he turns away._

_Caranthir could break his own teeth the way he bites down, hating the thought that all these people could have seen Maedhros bleeding, staggering, not in control of himself._

_Hating the thought that Maedhros would hate it more._

_Maedhros. Maitimo._

_Maedhros is Maitimo, beloved and beautiful, but—Maedhros is eldest and far away, studying in the city or gallivanting in the mountains with cousins and a brother not named Caranthir. Maedhros rides beside Athair and protects the family with gun, knife, and fist._

_Maitimo, however, doesn’t care about age. Maitimo crashes into his brothers and lifts them high and throws them on sofas and then falls atop them, crushing them just enough to get punched in the stomach and tickled on the sides in retaliation. Maitimo eats turnips, and Maitimo presses mud-cloaked, red-faced brothers into his sweaty chest and tells them everything will be well._

_“Moryo?”_

_Caranthir blinks. Athair hasn’t called him by his middle name in ages._

_(he never calls Maedhros Maitimo)_

_Athair is viewing him curiously. Perhaps he can see how Caranthir retracts his head into his shoulders like a brown-spotted turtle, perhaps he spies the way his nose quivers in distress, in scattered fury, in confused helplessness._

_Caranthir can’t swallow. Something square and hard is lodged in his throat like a brick._

_“You should get some rest,” Athair says, reaching out a hand to help his most difficult son._

_(harshest, quickest to anger, when was the last time you tried to talk to him, is Caranthir’s thought and Mother’s echo—except Mother had spoken to Athair, not her son, and Caranthir abandoned his eavesdropping and kicked pebbles in the orchard stream till he slipped and fell)_

_“Come,” Athair says, and his voice is softer than Caranthir remembers. “If you will not sleep, come sit and drink with me. Celebrate our success. The last months have been long, and you have proven yourself a man on our journey, as Maedhros likes to remind me from time to time. All my boys have grown into their boots.”_

_Athair’s hand still reaches._

_Someone by the fire accompanies a guitar in a wretchedly off-key voice._

_Caranthir’s face is already red from everything, from Maitimo’s drunkenness to his own riotous emotions, and yet his pulse quickens to hear Athair speak so. Is it the strength of the oath he made, though his purpose was impure? Is it the note of pride in Athair’s voice, pride that he hears so rarely? Or is it that Maitimo has praised him?_

_Maitimo. Celegorm made off with him, not quietly enough to evade a few raucous jibes from some of Rumil’s people, calls about the weakness of the red-head in Celegorm’s arms. No stomach for the drink._

_No heart for anything else, Caranthir thinks abruptly. He takes Athair’s hand—iron-strong and iron-cold—and pulls himself to his feet. He ducks his head so he cannot be tempted to stay by the warm look in Athair’s eyes and his unexpected attention. He simply cannot sit in peace while Maitimo is—in the state he is._

_“I’m sorry, Athair,” Caranthir murmurs. “You’re right.  I’m very tired. I should sleep. Sorry.”_

_He hastens after Celegorm._

 

Caranthir can’t find the words to convey how much he hates the desert.

(Mother used to say hate was a word one shouldn’t use lightly, but Mother isn’t here)

Caranthir has always found it wearying to hate anyone for too long, excepting brothers who yell loudly in his ear to wake him from sleep, or brothers who tell him he was found in a woven basket on the church steps, sucking his thumbs.

It’s much easier to hate a place. The desert they plod through is flatter than any land Caranthir has ever seen, and everything is dust and sand and sun glinting off sand. The days swelter and haze into three, four, six, nine.

Caranthir has no hat but wears a light shirt wrapped around his head, because he would rather look a fool and maybe suffocate than suffer his skin to peel in layers.

He would rather suffocate than reveal how he, too, questions Athair’s burning desire to cross this God-forsaken hell-plain. The shirt hides his pressed lips, keeps him from biting at his collar like a child.

There is a rebellion of sorts, and Athair shoots the mutineer, shattering his head (necessary, necessary, _Hail Mary, full of grace_ ), and then Athair shatters—something else.

Caranthir listens, breathless, as Athair strikes out with his voice. He does not sway the people of the wagon train so much as hammer them into unity, a hammering precise, sharp, and inexorable.

“He slaughtered my father. He hunted my family.”

A moment (another) without breath.

“He marred my eldest son.”

What?

Caranthir frantically pulls recent months to mind, discards them as empty of Bauglir. He nearly misses the way Maitimo’s shoulders tense under his coat, but then Athair raises his chin and says, “If you would?”

Caranthir stands a little behind his brother, and cannot see his face, but Curufin sprouts out of the ground like a shadow trying to attach himself to Athair’s heels, and his glittering eyes narrow as he peers around Athair’s shoulder.

Then Maitimo is Maedhros, who follows Athair’s commands even when it hurts him, and Maedhros undoes his coat and reaches for his collar (does this hurt him?) and Caranthir arrests the urge to grab his brother’s arm and press it down against his side.

Maedhros pulls his coat, shirt, and ever-lengthening hair aside, and Caranthir leans forward, too.

Too? Everyone leans in, because no one is ever uninterested in Maedhros. His height and his copper hair catch one’s attention first, and then everything else. Some people follow his voice, others the movement of his hands, in speech or battle. Caranthir has always looked for Maedhros’s smile, the promise of understanding and kindness.

Maedhros is not smiling now, and little wonder why. The skin of his neck, pale, normally protected by his coat from the blistering sun, rises in a raw, ugly, unbalanced circle just above the collarbone.

Teeth marks.

Caranthir’s innards writhe. Something _bit_ Maedhros. It doesn’t look like scars from a dog attack.

(Caranthir would know—Huan bit him on the wrist once, though it was an accident and all Caranthir’s fault)

Of course, there are other creatures capable of viciousness, but Caranthir doesn’t want to imagine any of them leaping at his brother, bearing down, digging fangs into his delicate skin.

It must have happened in South Pass, when Athair and Maglor rode off in the night to bring Maedhros back to camp. Caranthir woke up to find Celegorm chewing his nails, cradling his gun, and Maedhros slumped bone-weary for days while Maglor haunted his every step.

Caranthir saw the bandage not long after, but he didn’t know—he didn’t know.

Athair gazes at Maedhros for a moment, then sweeps his eyes over the crowd, lifting his hands as though he would draw them all under his protection. 

Maedhros does not look at anyone but Athair, who speaks words that seem to bolster the courage of everyone but Caranthir.

Caranthir is not listening.

He steps closer to Maedhros, reaching out with a blistered hand to nudge his brother’s elbow, to motion that he need not stand there all day with his wound exposed, but the smell of the salty sweat lacing Maedhros’s hair is a bitter sting that stills his advance.

More bitter still—Caranthir abruptly recognizes the way the teeth-marks are arranged.

Bauglir, or Bauglir’s servant, did not set dogs upon Maedhros. That is not what happened at all.

 

(how many times can one pray “save us _now_ ”?)

 

“It was a human,” Curufin says, nodding as he digs a stone out of the shoe of Amrod’s horse. His pick snaps, and Curufin curses.

Caranthir almost curses Curufin, but instead he leaves him there, bent over and prying at the stone with his fingers.

The desert is almost spent, and the day as well. The sun sinks on the horizon, leaving deep purple skies streaked with lances of blood-orange and pink. Caranthir used to feel an aching pull in his gut at the sight of such beauty, and on this quick-cooling evening, he might actually cry.

The wagon train is one man less. Caranthir scarcely knew him, and Athair was protecting them all, but there it is. One man less.

Maedhros is good as two men, at least.

Caranthir shudders, imagining his brother ambushed in a tight dark alley, rolling in the dust with a fierce attacker. Maedhros grappling with his assailant, grunting in pain as teeth pierce his skin. Maedhros throwing the man off, rising and gasping for breath. Athair and Maglor sweeping into the treacherous trap of a town to save him, and Maedhros staggering to his horse, holding his wound closed with one hand.

Caranthir clambers into the wagon, to claim a bench to sleep on, or under, before the twins tumble to bed.

Mother’s quilt is soft, and her paints, the colors of all the earth and sky, sit in their box waiting for Caranthir to brush his hands over them, to kiss them in place of the square, copper-haired woman he will never see again.

Instead, he draws Mother’s quilt around him, curling up in a ball, leaning on his left shoulder.

“Maedhros is very brave,” he whispers to the wind that springs up, batting against the wagon’s canvas. “He would do almost anything for Athair.”

Caranthir does not add that he is unsure if he could do the same.          

 

_Caranthir goes directly to the room he shares with all his brothers, shouldering past men and women known and unknown--all of them unknown really, because Caranthir is not an overly-friendly sort, is not one to share a cup of coffee by the fire with while trading stories about life. And he isn’t good with mere acquaintances. Perhaps that is why he has always been lonely and alone._

_The door hangs half open, and Caranthir does not hesitate to push it the rest of the way. Maitimo is on the other side and Celegorm—_

_Celegorm stops the swing of the door and throws a flat palm up, catching Caranthir just below the chest._

_“Hey,” Caranthir gasps, unable to say more for lack of breath._

_Celegorm withdraws his hand quickly._

_“Oh. It’s you.” The stony look on his face softens, just a little, and he jerks his head, stepping aside. Caranthir slips into the room._

_(Caranthir hadn’t even had to explain what he needed from Celegorm, back at the bonfire. He’d just pointed to their eldest brother, and Celegorm lifted Maitimo to his feet and slung Maitimo’s arm about his neck)_

_The flame of a single candle reveals the wide wood-framed bed where Maitimo lies fully dressed still, even down to his boots. Maitimo’s eyes are closed, but from the way they flutter with the twitching of his body, he cannot be fully asleep._

_Caranthir cannot command his feet to move closer to his brother. He crosses his arms instead and presses his elbows down, hiding the way his fingernails dig into his skin._

_The room smells faintly like leather and the weariness of the past few months, but the bittersweet scent of the bonfire overwhelms this._

_Perhaps that is what Maitimo will always smell of now—whiskey and burnt flame._

_The heavy step of Celegorm’s boots distracts Caranthir from his thoughts. Celegorm, head down, goes back and forth between him and the bed._

_This pacing, a restlessness somber and slow, is too weighted for Celegorm, and Caranthir can’t help but imagine the situation being even worse than he thought. The blood on Maitimo’s lips—is it from more than just Maitimo’s anxious habit of biting himself?_

_“Is he injured?” The question erupts from Caranthir before logic and good sense can prevail. They are in Mithrim, they have reached safety, they have reached the end._

_(another end, and another and another, so many endings and so few of them good)_

_Celegorm stops pacing and leans over the bed, fists shoving into the quilt Maitimo lies on, just near his right hand. His broad shoulders seem to stretch towards the corners of the room, and his golden hair shimmers in the flickering light. He looks at Caranthir, but he doesn’t answer his question._

_Instead, he says,“Maedhros is better than any of us. You, me, anyone. You got that?”_

_“Of course,” Caranthir says, somewhat bewildered. “We all know.”_

_Celegorm continues on like he hasn’t heard the reply._

_“He saved my life, back when that bounty-hunter Mairon found us. Shot his blowpipe right out of his hand, by moonlight._ Moonlight _.”_

_Caranthir nods, swallowing hard. Someone stumbles by in the hallway outside, singing drunkenly, and the brothers wait in silence until the noise fades away. Celegorm tears his gaze away from Caranthir and looks at Maitimo’s pale face._

_“Damn it, Maedhros.”_

_Celegorm jerks upright and reaches for the clay washng-up pitcher set behind the candle on the nightstand. There is a clean folded cloth as well, and Celegorm takes it and spills a little water over it. Then he pats Maitimo’s lips, and suddenly, despite his brother’s height and somewhat rougher hands, all Caranthir can see is the young boy but a few years older than him who would spend hours soothing the fur and hurts of creatures wild and tame._

_“Can I help?” Caranthir has no medical skill to speak of but—he wants to_ do _something. It’s Maitimo._

_“Nothing to do till morning,” Celegorm says tersely, throwing the cloth, now patched with faint red, back onto the nightstand._

_“Should I take off his boots?”_

_(In autumns and winters long ago, Caranthir used to pry Maitimo’s boots off his feet, falling back on the floor and laughing when they gave way abruptly to his modest strength. He used to slip the boots over his own baby feet and hobble about the kitchen till he fell over, or till Mother snatched him up and made him wash his hands for supper.)_

_Caranthir feels the pinch of the muscles in his face as he tries to keep from crumbling, and thank God Celegorm is strong enough to carry Maitimo and his own pain at the same time because Caranthir apparently can’t do either._

_Celegorm shrugs and pulls his short leather coat closer about his shoulders. The set of his jaw undercuts his teeth, a sign of irritation or impatience._

_“Do whatever you want,” he says, and begins to kick through the mess of quilts and pillows. “It’s not like he’ll care tonight.”_

_Here is a note of bitterness, and Caranthir cannot guess its meaning._

_“I think Maitimo is really hurt,” he says softly. “He wouldn’t let me call for Maglor.”_

_“He’s drunk,” Celegorm says, “That’s all.” The words are sparse of feeling, the tone not so much._

_On the bed, Maitimo shifts, and his hand turns and twitches after the sound of Celegorm’s voice like it is being yanked by a string._

_“Sorry.”_

_Celegorm and Caranthir freeze at Maitimo’s raspy whisper. Caranthir almost stutters when he quickly replies, “We aren’t angry with you.”_

_He could never ever be angry with his eldest brother._

_Maitimo does not acknowledge the reassurement. His eyes are still closed, and maybe he had only been sleep-talking._

_Caranthir moves around the side of the bed and gently brushes Maitimo’s hand with his own._

_“Get some sleep, Caranthir.” Celegorm is the one with crossed arms now, and eyebrows knit unhappily together._

_Caranthir cannot tell by Celegorm’s bleak expression whether the words are a suggestion or an order._

_“I don’t want to go to bed,” he says. If Celegorm is going to sit up to keep an eye on Maitimo, Caranthir doesn’t want him to have to do it alone. He straightens his shoulders, blinks weariness from his eyes, and says, “I can help you take care of him.”_

_Celegorm’s frown deepens._

_“Fine,” he says, and, to Caranthir’s surprise, he stalks toward the door and unlocks it._

_“Wait!” In a sudden panic, Caranthir lunges forward and grabs Celegorm above the elbow. “Where are you going?”_

_“Out,” Celegorm retorts, yanking the door open._

_Caranthir stumbles over his words, almost frantic. “I didn’t mean—please don’t leave me alone.” What if Maitimo gets sick? What if the twins come to bed?_

_Celegorm has to stay—he is the most dependable in crisis, and has been at Maedhros’s side more often than not on the awful journey here._

_(Did Celegorm leap forward for Mother, or did he not? Caranthir cannot remember, didn’t see. But he chooses to believe.)_

_(Belief is your greatest gift, darling, Mother used to say.)_

_“Don’t go,” Caranthir pleads._

_They breathe together, not quite in sync, and then Celegorm shakes his head._

_“Don’t be a baby, Caranthir. I need to find Huan, so are you going to help or aren’t you?”_

_Caranthir inhales through his nose, reminding himself that Celegorm smells more of his dog than of whiskey and gunsmoke. He lets his arm fall away from his brother and squares his shoulders._

_“I’ll take good care of him,” he says._

_“Sure,” Celegorm replies, and Caranthir blinks away the sudden burn in his eyes, and the incongruent memory of catching tadpoles with Celegorm one spring day in another life._

_That day smelled like rain and thick rich mud that squelched underfoot._

_Caranthir was often lonely as a child, but he wasn’t always alone._

_Celegorm stirs, and a new and wretched thought shoots through Caranthir’s brain._

_Caranthir left Athair alone._

_Athair’s praise under-appreciated, Athair’s company spurned—did Caranthir break his oath? He trembles under the weight of the sudden guilt, and a need to confess burgeons in his soul. His golden, wild brother must fill in for a priest, though he may not offer absolution. Just an ear, and maybe comfort._

_Celegorm was always good at soothing frightened, injured creatures._

_“Wait,” Caranthir says, staying Celegorm for a moment longer. “I think I did something terrible.”_

_Celegorm has passed through the door, but he stops and glances back at Caranthir silently._

_“Athair asked me to stay with him,” Caranthir says. He feels very cold, as though winter has followed him indoors. “I left him behind.”_

_“That’s impossible,” Celegorm interrupts, and a haunted look sheets his face and mixes with a defeated tone so unlike him that it turns Caranthir’s blood to ice.  “None of us can leave anything behind.”_  
  


Maitimo does not try so hard to keep his neck covered anymore. He no longer wraps a scarf around his neck, or wears his coat even on warmer days, and if his shirt collar slips a little, he no longer tugs it up toward his sharp jaw. Not every time.

Some days, Caranthir can catch sight of The Scar, whose origin he still cannot fathom.

He hasn’t asked any questions, not of Maitimo, not of Maglor, not of Celegorm. Maitimo rides and scouts and hunts and talks as though nothing has changed, but he drinks more often, if that were possible.

Maglor almost glowers at Athair for three days straight after the mutiny, until Maitimo catches him at it and lures him into riding ahead of the wagons. Caranthir, driving the family wagon, clucks at the horses and doesn’t take his eyes off his oldest brothers. When they rejoin the train, Maglor’s face looks red and puffy, as though he as has been crying. Maitimo is very pale, but he urges Alexander close to the wagon, where he rides for a while until Athair halts the train so that they can clean dust from the noses of the sweat-slick horses and give them what little water is available.

Maitimo dismounts then, tethering Alexander to the wagon. He wordlessly assists Caranthir in tending to the horses pulling the wagon, and then waters his own. Alexander drinks eagerly, then arches his head around Maitimo and snuffles in his ear.

For one moment, a smile flashes across Maitimo’s face, and Caranthir’s worry lessens, just a little.

When the wagon train prepares to move again, Maitimo does not climb up on Alexander’s saddle again. Instead, he tumbles into the back of the wagon under the canvas, where Ambarussa lie napping, trying to fight off mild malaise.

Caranthir listens to Maitimo whisper soothing words, words that soon get lost in the rattle of the wagon, and something like relief washes over him when ten minutes later he steals a glance and sees that Maitimo lies sleeping, half-smothered by a blanket of twins.

When Curufin rides by, urging his horse in Athair’s direction, he raises an eyebrow at Alexander’s empty saddle, but Caranthir flicks the reins and resolutely refuses to answer the question in his sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued brother’s demeanor.

Curufin never knows when to stop _asking_. Sometimes, it is kinder to be ignorant.

Mother used to say that too, though she may have phrased it better.

(Curufin left Mother behind, cut her out of his heart some time ago. Does he ever miss her?)

 _(Believe, my darling_.)

 

_Celegorm leaves, closing the door behind him, and Caranthir breathes hard and rubs his cheeks and chews his collar. The room is dark, save for the little candle at Maitimo’s bedside, and so the piles of blankets that litter the floor mound up in dark shadows. The mess irritates Caranthir. He would gather everything up and fold it neatly away, but for the fact that the night lengthens and at some point all his brothers will tumble in, looking for sleep._

_God knows where the twins are—perhaps the kitchens, ingratiating themselves with the cooks and stuffing themselves with treats. Curufin lingered near Athair until Athair sent him off on some mission, and Caranthir hopes with all his might that he is holed up in Rumil’s study. Maybe he fell asleep there. Maybe he won’t come back till morning, till Maitimo is himself again._

_As for Maglor—Maglor better stay away tonight._

_Caranthir has not forgotten that Maglor has something to do with Maitimo’s current state. What that something is, he could never guess, nor does he want to try._

_Caranthir is very tired._

_Maitimo moans, twists his neck so that his pale face is half buried in his pillow. Caranthir tries not to remember the times his brother has woken from nightmares, whimpering or even calling out._

_He advances to the bed, shushing Maitimo softly._

_Maitimo. This helpless brother, unconscious, drunk, and hurt—is this Maitimo or is this Maedhros? Or is it impossible to separate them anymore?_

_Which would hurt less?_

_Caranthir sighs. He will help Maedhros take off his shirt, or at least will unbutton it, and then he will pull off his boots. Maedhros can thank him in the morning._

_Caranthir reaches out, takes a hard button in one hand, and pushes it out of its hole._

_He jerks back when Maedhros’s eyes start open, when Maedhros’s right hand strikes from it resting place on the quilt, when Maedhros grabs Caranthir’s wrist and digs his fingernails into Caranthir’s skin._

_“Maedhros.” Caranthir strokes the hand, tries to pry the fingers away from his wrist. He tries to calm his brother, who seems unable to blink or breathe._

_“No,” Maedhros whispers softly. “No. Not this.”_

_His eyes scrape Caranthir’s face without recognizing him—again—and bewildered pain settles in Caranthir’s heart._

_“Maedhros, Maitimo, it’s me. It’s Caranthir.” Caranthir kneels down by the bed, biting his lips as he has never done before. He reaches out, slowly, and brushes Maitimo’s contracted forehead, and his breath catches when Maitimo’s eyelashes flutter closed._

_“You’re safe,” Caranthir says. He believes this, too. He must. Every single one of his brothers must be safe, and not damaged beyond healing._

_What dreams has Maitimo been suffering? What hurts?_

_Maitimo still has not released his wrist. His breathing is still too irregular. Caranthir does not know what to do. Words are not his brother’s best comfort, nor is Caranthir skilled with them. Maitimo has always loved touch, but in his half-sleep he shrinks from Caranthir._

_“Shhh,” Caranthir says, rubbing his brother’s hand softly. He leans forward and kisses the long slender fingers. He is young, but he feels oddly like a parent, or, at least, like Maitimo is one of the twins._

_What would Mother do?_

_Maitimo needs to sleep. Drink has taken him almost there, and yet..._

_Caranthir does not make a decision so much as suffer the inspiration of memory, a memory of youth, of stormy nights and warm arms and hair that smelled like clay and apple blossoms. A memory of being rocked back and forth, back and forth._

_Clearing his throat, continuing to gently stroke his brother’s hand with his own, Caranthir begins to sing._

Rest tired eyes a while  
Sweet is thy baby’s smile  
Angels are guarding and they watch o’er thee

Sleep, sleep, _grah mo chree._

_His voice is not angelic, is not melodious and enchanting like Maitimo’s, nor is it as universally beautiful as Maglor’s, but it possesses a paradoxical quality of smooth roughness, low, even, and calming, and Mother always used to say she loved it, that she could feel his voice humming in her chest when he sang._

_Maitimo seems to be soothed by it as well. Before the Irish lullaby ends, he relaxes his grip on Caranthir’s wrist and his hand fall to his side._

_Caranthir switches to the Ave Maria, one of his favorite songs from childhood, the only Latin thing he could ever get through without stumbling and stuttering, and Maitimo breathes almost evenly.  Caranthir almost clambers onto the bed beside him, to wedge himself between it and his brother’s ribs._

_Instead, he takes Maitimo’s hands and crosses them over his chest before removing his boots and folding the bed quilt over his body. As Caranthir finishes the song, he chokes on the last few notes._

_It was only a few days ago that Maglor sang Christmas carols to the twins, and Maitimo stood in trees and shadows, clutching his arms and pain to himself._

_He steps away from the bed, to a pile of quilts, and he sinks down among them, kicking off his own boots. He is so tired, so very tired. From where he lies, he can see a slice of the moon cutting silver across the sky, rising slowly above Mithrim._

_He closes his eyes and sleeps._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Special thanks to Mythopoeia and TolkienGirl, who helped me make this chapter what it is! You're the best co-authors ever!)


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